the craft of wonder

Not alone

It is unyielding

The situation is encountered.

The player is among the stillness unto silence.

The communal intrinsic task of exploration.

story evoked here

I converse the image to move

The defier

The light! The light!

You are chosen. Come forth.

To fail and to still be like.

The theatre lasts.

Among other.

The motion of theatre

Here is the moment:

So it does.

I confess.

The presence of memory

…?!…

Anywhere possible

My work is an artistic rendering of a sacrament.

Fear the truth. But, know that it is the truth.

Unabashedly I seek the unreal.

The surface tension of union is yielded unto trust.

The body is intrinsic movement.

Word moves unity.

Language distinguishes itself in forms of being.

Look at me. Look at you.

Play! Play!

Further still the allusion calls: the rapture of illusion; the trust of truth.

The craft—so selfish, so giving.

The theatre is the moment, anticipating what is.

Oh? Oh!

I must break.

It is an alchemy of brokenness.

Complete and utter dependence demands the sacrifice of the self. It is a momentous beauty.

There lies the totality. There lies the paradox.

When you break, then I will speak of joy.

The vulnerabilities of fear, of pain, of doubt question the very process of artistic being.

Because of the fear; because of the secret; because of the wonder.

Among space, character discovers its place.

Like a vital drop in the sea.

Come revelation. Come enchantment. Come revelry.

I am like a flower.

As a writer and Theatre Artist, I have failed.

The beauty is in its humbly unifying nature, its humble unifying art.

Theatre is borne along the vanishing moment.

The vitality of theatre is the paradox of character and image.

At all cost, even unto reality, even unto the imagination, the symbol must manifest itself.

So dark the secret: so bright its revelation.

Can the space rage? Can power whisper?

Prayer is active stillness—a stillness that moves; Art moves within that stillness.

Sin is the infringement on life and community. Art is the infringement of life, the blasphemy of life.

Pain is entirely secret. Left to the bearer of it. Individually lamented and individually lonesome.

The idea is inexpressible. Its beauty contours the soul.

The sundering realms of reality. The forming of the unreal from the depths of division. From the depths, the truth.